


I'll Bring the Flowers

by baconhorcrux



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awful AU, Doctor!Stiles, M/M, gardener!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconhorcrux/pseuds/baconhorcrux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic came from a list of awful AUs I saw on tumblr, which I can't find now because of course I can't, but one of them was essentially "I've been stealing flowers out of your garden on my way to visit the cemetery and you just caught me and demanded I lead you to the girl I'm going to meet because you think it's a date and this is the most awkward walk ever."</p><p>It's a little rushed at the end but I didn't feel like committing more time to this than I already did, so. Uh. Enjoy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Bring the Flowers

Stiles loved his new house. It was a decent-sized three bedroom with an attached two-car garage, with plenty of yard space on the front, sides, and back, so he didn’t feel pressed up against his neighbors, and set right against the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve, so he could, in theory, go for a run through the woods at any given moment. And, less in theory, get the thrilling sight of seeing deer wander through his unfenced property every now and then. He thought the thrill might go away after a time, but for now, it still brought a smile to his face every time he saw one walk through, chewing thoughtfully on his grass and the long-hanging branches of trees.

 

The best thing about his house, though, was the location. It was exactly halfway between Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital – where he’d just gotten residency as a general surgeon – and his dad’s place, which, in a town like Beacon Hills, meant it was about five minutes to either one. And, bonus of bonuses, it was only a short walk south to the Beacon Hills Cemetery – seriously, this town had no imagination – so he could visit his mom whenever he wanted. He’d shirked that responsibility throughout his grueling years as an undergrad at Berkeley, then in med school down in LA, then while working as an intern, also in LA. He knew that it couldn’t be helped, that his mom understood, but it still made him feel like a shit son.

 

Well, no more. Now he felt like a good son. A great son, even. Grade-A-Son Material: Stiles Stilinski. The sort of son that went to the cemetery whenever he had a moment and left flowers to make up for the six-odd years of not visiting the cemetery and leaving flowers even once because he could never get time (or money) to come back to Beacon Hills. He wouldn’t have even been able to see his dad, if the Sheriff hadn’t made a point to take time off once or twice a year (usually on one of their birthdays) and make the long drive down to LA.

 

Now he saw his dad all the time – ate dinner at his place once a week, and they had a standing lunch date every Wednesday, though it sometimes wasn’t during lunch, depending on their schedules. Stiles had started bringing his dad real, healthy food – his dad thought he’d gotten away with eating all that crap while Stiles had been gone, but he definitely had not, Stiles still had his spies – to his office at the Sheriff’s Department again. The Sheriff retaliated by bringing Stiles equally healthy food while he was on call at the hospital, but joke’s on him, Stiles actually _liked_ tofu and bean sprouts. _Hah._

 

His life was kind of perfect, all in all. Scott and Kira had bought a house about a fifteen minute drive from his, and though they were all busy with work – Scott at the vet clinic he’d taken over from Deaton, Kira with teaching unruly third graders – they did their best to coordinate bi-monthly hangouts. Lydia and Allison skyped him from their flat in Oxford, where Lydia was studying some sort of fancy mathematics Stiles only pretended he understood and Allison taught French and competed in archery. (Oddly enough, he talked to Lydia and Allison more than Scott and Kira, due to Stiles’ crazy hours.)

 

The only thing, the only hindrance in his life, was the fact that because he tended to work odd hours, visiting his mom’s grave was proving a little difficult. The graveyard had official hours, but it didn’t have a fence or gate, just gate posts at the entrance, so Stiles could get into it easily enough. But it felt weird visiting without leaving her anything, and most flower shops were closed when he got off shift after a particularly hard day of dealing with patients and wanted to visit the graveyard.

 

Which is how he found himself stealing flowers from his crazy hot gardener neighbor.

 

Even if Stiles had hated the house, he’s pretty sure he would have taken it on sight thanks to his next door neighbor. The guy was like criminal levels of hot: Dark hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow, heavy eyebrows on a chiseled face, bulky muscles that made the tank tops he wore look constantly put-upon in their effort to hold in his abs, and shoulders that Stiles would gladly throw his legs over.

 

He hadn’t talked to Hot Gardener yet – the guy seemed to have some sort of eternal glower going on, which, while hot, Stiles found very intimidating – but he had surreptitiously watched the guy walk around his house (what? His living room window looked straight into the guy’s living room/kitchen, it couldn’t be helped) and work on his garden, which was a veritable explosion of colors. Roses, lilies, irises, marigolds – every flower Stiles knew to name, and more he didn’t, all lining the front of the house. A large wooden fence surrounded the backyard, probably for privacy and to keep the local deer population out, but behind it Stiles could see more plants, food this time, stalks of corn, berry bushes and vines of snap peas.

 

The guy wasn’t just a hot gardener, Stiles had explained to Scott on more than one slightly drunken occasion. The guy was like, Farmer’s Market Hot. He wore sweaters with thumb holes and tight-fitting Levi jeans, he grew flowers and never seemed to mind the plethora of bees they drew in, Stiles had seen him give his produce to Mrs. Dobrovich two doors down without seeming to take anything in return. Hot Gardener looked like the type of guy who bought only organic and locally-made bread and cheeses, who cared about the environment and truly treated his body like a temple ( _and what a temple it was_ ).

 

And Stiles was stealing his flowers.

 

It was just supposed to be a one-time deal. He’d had a really hard day, had lost a patient with stage-four brain cancer who had reminded him just a little too much of his mother. It was about three in the morning, he felt too wired to fall asleep yet, and the world was held in that pre-dawn quiet that both soothed him and creeped him out. He’d dithered outside his house, wanting to go visit his mom but not wanting to show up empty-handed, when he’d remembered that Hot Gardener had a bunch of tulips just coming up. They had been his mom’s favorite. She said she liked the way the petals opened, slowly, patiently, like they were waiting for just the right moment. And the color had been her favorite, bright and deep orange, a color full of vitality.

 

So he’d walked by, checked the house for signs of life – _it’s three in the morning, who in their right mind would be awake right now?_ – and cut off a flower. Then, feeling like he was going to hell for this, he quickly ran away down the street towards the cemetery. His mom would understand, he thought. He wanted to give her something nice, and it was only a one-time thing. Wouldn’t happen again.

 

Only it did. About a week later, he came home from work at five in the morning, and stole another orange tulip from his neighbor. Three days later, around two in the afternoon, he took some daffodils. Two weeks after that, a couple morning glories and an iris. The guy didn’t seem to have figured it out – or, he didn’t erect a fence around the front yard to protect his plants, nor did he come pounding on Stiles’ door demanding explanation – so Stiles actively shoved his guilt down. The guy had so many plants, he probably didn’t even care. Anyways, Stiles would make it up to him somehow. Give him a free check-up, maybe. That wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe the guy would fall totally, madly in love with him and his bedside manner and the stolen flowers would be forgotten. Okay, probably not, but hey, it’s not like he’s gonna get caught, anyways. He’s not doing it at the same time every day, and when he does, no one’s even around. There are plenty of people on this street who could be stealing flowers. He’s not going to get caught.

 

 

He gets caught.

 

It’s his mom’s birthday. The sky is overcast, with a bitter wind picking up, and Stiles’ day has not been going too well from the get-go. He was supposed to have this day off. He was supposed to go to the cemetery around lunch time with his dad, before the Sheriff went to work, and he was supposed to have time to relax and deal with the ragged hole in his chest that always felt a little more ragged on this day.

 

But then he got a call around five this morning. There was a huge crash on the interstate, it said, a giant clusterfuck of a pile-up after a semi plowed into another semi and the two trucks jackknifed on the freeway. It was a mess. A couple people died on site, but most lived long enough to get to the surrounding hospitals. Beacon Hills Memorial got some of the less critical ones – they were a trauma center, but not exactly set up for truly bad cases. But it was still an all hands on deck sort of situation, so Stiles had to spend his mom’s birthday with his hands in various people’s bodies, trying to keep them alive.

 

It worked, mostly. He only lost one patient. Three died in total. The rest were now in stable condition and would probably go home.

 

Now, it was about seven o’clock and he was just getting home, his empty backpack hanging limply off one shoulder as he trudged his way up his steps. Once inside, he put the backpack down and just rested against the wall for a while. He knew what he had to do. If he sat down now, he’d never get up again, and he had to go visit his mom. Not just out of obligation; the day had thoroughly worn him out, both emotionally and physically, and he wanted to sit with her awhile. Even if she was gone, and couldn’t exactly talk to him or hug him, it still made him feel better. She’d loved that hospital, and the hospital staff, and had never got bored with hearing what was happening, even after spending several months confined to it. Stiles could remember people – doctors, nurses – coming into her room after big traumas like today’s, talking to her, letting out their fear and sorrow and anxiety. He knew, now, that it wasn’t exactly something they were supposed to do, but he got it. His mom had had a presence. Comforting, kind. But she didn’t take any nonsense, and wouldn’t let anyone get away with pretending things were okay. She’d gotten a BA in psychology in college, had taught it at the high school before she got sick, and knew all the tricks people used.

 

She used to say that sometimes, just talking it out could be helpful. Even if who or what you talked to couldn’t respond, you just had to get it out of you, put your feelings in the world. So that’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to put his feelings in the world.

 

With a sigh, he shrugged off the wall and walked upstairs to his bedroom. There he changed into a newer pair of jeans and a dark Henley, just to wear something nice and clean for a change. Then, checking he had his keys and his wallet, he walked back out the door and turned left, to the cemetery.

 

Stopping by his neighbor’s was almost second nature, now. It was right there, convenient and easy, and his mind had wound back to the little eight-year-old girl whose hand he held for two hours until her mother got out of surgery, wondering if she was doing alright on the little cot the hospital provided, if her dad had shown up yet, and he didn’t even realize he was grabbing a bunch of flowers from his neighbor’s flower bed until the man in question was right there in front of him.

 

Stiles blinked. His ears made a weird rushing noise, then sound popped back into existence, and he became aware that his neighbor was yelling at him.

 

“Um. What?” Great. Very eloquent. And smart, considering what he just got caught doing. The guy’s nostrils flared, eyes widening in what Stiles could only describe as pure fury, and Stiles would be worried, really, except the guy was wearing a dirty white tank top for a shirt, which showed off his muscular, broad shoulders that were tanned bronze from the sun, and holy mother of god Stiles hadn’t been so turned on and terrified in equal measure since Lydia left for MIT.

 

And the guy was still staring at him. Focus, Stiles.

 

“Um.” He really had to stop saying that. “Look, I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t really… here.” He shoved the flowers back at the guy. They flapped sadly against his muscular chest. Jesus, this guy made Chris Evans look flabby. “I was in a hurry and… it was stupid. Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

 

“You’ve been stealing my flowers for months now,” Hot Neighbor said, eyes narrowed and suspicious. His voice was higher than Stiles imagined it being.

 

“Oh, c’mon. It hasn’t been months! I mean, I only moved in like, a month and a half ago. Or maybe two months ago, now that I’m counting, but still.”

 

“It’s been long enough,” said Hot Neighbor, pointing his finger – Jesus Christ, even that looked muscular, how was this dude even real – in Stiles’ face. Stiles’ mouth flopped open like a fish as he tried to think of something to say, because the guy had a point. Hot Neighbor looked from Stiles’ eyes to his mouth, then seemed to take in the rest of Stiles, almost like he couldn’t help himself. Stiles felt incredibly exposed under the guy’s heavy gaze. When he finally met Stiles’ eyes again, lowering his hand, there was a considering look on his face.

 

“Take me to her.”

 

“I – what?”

 

“The girl – the one you’ve obviously been taking my flowers to. I want to make sure she’s at least worth it.”

 

Stiles felt himself pale a little. “I, um. I’m not sure that’s…”

 

And the finger was back. “Take me to meet her, or I’ll call the cops right now. My sister’s on the force, she’ll make sure you’re charged with something.”

 

For a moment, Stiles imagined having to explain to his dad that his only son was getting cuffed by one of his deputies for stealing flowers. The Sheriff would never let him live it down. Neither would the rest of the precinct, actually. Stiles knows they had a pool going for how long he would go before getting arrested – and Stiles had proudly surpassed their guesses, subsequently ending the pool. He’d tried to take all the money for himself, but his dad had put a stop to that, saying, and Stiles is quoting here, “I know you’ve had a lot of close calls and only got out of them by either running or sweet-talking, and I’m not going to condone that behavior by giving you money.”

 

Stiles could not have his dad feel right for keeping that money from him.

 

“Dude, come on. Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?”

 

“No. Frankly, I think I’m letting you off easy, here. Be thankful I’m giving you a chance at all, and start walking.”

 

 _Ugh, this can’t be happening,_ Stiles thought. All he’d wanted to do was quietly acknowledge his mom’s birthday, and so far, the world had decided to shit all over those plans. First with the accident, now with Angry Hot Neighbor, who was apparently under the impression Stiles stole his flowers to impress a girl. Which, well, wasn’t strictly _untrue_ , Stiles supposed.

 

“I – fine. But… fine.” He shook his head, turning away with a down-trodden sigh. “Let’s go.”

 

Hot Neighbor didn’t hesitate to follow as Stiles lead the way. At the end of the block, he crossed to the other side of the street. His fingers twitched where they hung by his side, and he had never felt more aware of his limbs than he did right now. Should he put his hands in his pockets? No, that would crush the flowers. He kept switching the flowers between his hands, careful enough to keep them from breaking but still clumsily, and the guy was totally judging him for it. Stiles could sense Hot Neighbor’s gaze on him, okay. He could tell. The guy probably thought Stiles was on drugs or something.

 

“So, um,” he started, talking just for the sake of doing something. “What’s your name?”

 

“Derek,” Hot Neighbor said, almost grunting it out. Had his scowl deepened? Stiles was pretty sure it had deepened.

 

“Derek. Cool. That’s, uh, cool. I’m Stiles.” Silence fell again. _Just tell him_ , Stiles thought. _Tell him where you’re going now!_ Instead, he said, “What’s your sister’s name?”

 

Derek gave him a suspicious look. “Why?”

 

“You said she was a deputy, right? I’m just curious.”

 

“Oh. Laura.”

 

“Oh!” Stiles said, face splitting into a grin before he could think twice about it. “Laura, she’s cool. I like her a lot – really funny. And pretty, too.” _Must run in the family,_ he thought, but wisely decided to keep that to himself. Derek seemed like the type who would punch you in the face if you complimented his looks.

 

“How do you know my sister?” Derek asked, looking more and more suspicious as they walked. Stiles wondered if he’d figured out where they were going yet. The cemetery wasn’t very far, now. Just another block, really.

 

“I know everyone in the police department,” said Stiles, smiling cheekily at the look on Derek’s face despite the situation. It was the face of a man who’d just had all his suspicions confirmed. Stiles got that a lot. “My dad’s the Sheriff.”

 

All at once, Derek’s expression dropped into blank surprise. “Oh.” Then, “wait, you’re name’s _Stiles Stilinski_?”

 

Stiles frowned. “Shut up, it’s a nickname.”

 

“Right.” They continued walking on for a few feet. “Son of the Sheriff. Maybe I should have just called the cops.”

 

Stiles stopped walking, turning to him wide-eyed. “Please don’t. My dad would never let me live this down. He’ll laugh at me for the rest of his days if he has to arrest me for stealing flowers, and trust me, he _would_ arrest me, and not even to teach me a lesson, he’d do it just for the pleasure of laughing at me about it.”

 

Derek’s lips twitched into what Stiles would’ve called a smile on anyone else (a smirk, at least), but he just motioned for Stiles to carry on. “I’ll see how I feel when I meet your date.”

 

Well, at least there was that horrible silver lining. Derek wouldn’t call the cops on a guy visiting a grave, right? He always seemed nice enough. Stiles had a good view of Derek’s living room, okay, he’d seen the guy smile softly when talking on the phone, seen him wear an apron while cooking, eat cookie dough by the spoonful rather than actually bake the cookies, he totally had to be nice somewhere in there. Even with all the scowling, and anger, and very real threats. Stiles just sort of brought that stuff out in people.

 

Shit, Derek was totally going to call his dad, on the Sheriff’s late wife’s birthday, to tell him that his son was a thief. Stiles’ life was over.

 

They came up on the front of the cemetery. Stiles slowed to a stop in front of the big, ornamental gate posts, the sign Beacon Hills Cemetery hanging above it.

 

“Well,” he said, giving a half-hearted wave at the entrance, “here we are.”

 

He sensed more than saw Derek freeze beside him, whole posture going stiff and awkward. When he chanced a glance, he saw Derek was staring back at him incredulously.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Derek. Stiles rose an eyebrow at him. “You really think I’m going to believe this?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles said. He was starting to feel a prick of anger in his gut.

 

“I’m not stupid, Stiles. Take me to where you’re really going.”

 

“This is where I’m going! You’re the one who assumed it was a date!” he shouted, motioning at the cemetery again, this time more wildly. “You want proof? Fine. Come on.” With that, he turned away and stormed through the gate posts, heading down the familiar dirt path. He half-expected Derek not to follow, but a half-second later he heard the guy’s boots coming up behind him. Derek didn’t say anything, and neither did he. The further they made it into the graveyard, the more the brief flash of anger dissipated, replaced by the bone-deep weariness that had been filling him since he got off shift. He just wanted to say happy birthday to his mom, relax a little before going back to his empty house where he had no one to distract him from today’s memories. He didn’t want to deal with car accidents or scared children or angry hot neighbors whose flowers he’s been stealing.

 

Stiles turned the corner marked by a big oak tree, then came to a slow stop. There, written on a flat stone in the earth, was,

 

CLAUDIA YVETTE STILINSKI

APRIL 27th 1970 – NOVEMBER 1st 2005

AND SO SHE WALKED

OUT OF OUR LIVES

FOREVER

 

Ignoring Derek’s stiff body next to him, Stiles stepped forward. He brushed off the few leaves and twigs that had fallen onto the stone since his dad’s visit this morning, moved the flowers already there so his could fit on the stone.

 

“Hey, mom,” he said, lightly, conversationally. “Sorry I’m late. There was a big pile-up on the freeway, I got called in. Well, you know how it is. Never a dull moment in a hospital.” Behind him, Derek shifted uncomfortably. “Oh yeah, that’s Derek. He’s my neighbor. I’ve been stealing all those flowers I’ve left for you from his garden. Please don’t tell dad. He’d laugh himself into a stroke if he found out.”

 

He half-turned to Derek, now, raising his eyebrows. “You still gonna turn me in?”

 

“Um, I.” Derek coughed, looking exceedingly uncomfortable with where they are. Stiles took pity on him, mostly because a guy that handsome should never look that awkward.

 

“C’mon, dude,” he said, waving Derek forward. Stiles sat on the ground, folding his legs into a criss-cross position, and patted the ground next to him. “Pull up some grass, help me wish my mom happy birthday.” He expected Derek to leave, honestly, since the dude’s so uncomfortable. He expected some muttered half-excuse, for Derek to say he’ll ‘let him off the hook this time’ or something, and that to be that. All the rest of their interactions as neighbors overshadowed by this one extremely awkward circumstance.

 

To his surprise, Derek takes a seat next to him, folding his legs a lot more elegantly than Stiles did – not surprising, considering how muscular Derek is. Stiles never quite outgrew the bambi legs.

 

“Happy birthday,” Derek said, checked the inscription on the stone, “Claudia.” Then, even more to Stiles’ surprise, he continued, “she died a few months before my own mom.”

 

For a second, Stiles doesn’t know what to say. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, respectful. “Your mom’s dead, too?”

 

Derek nodded. “When I was sixteen.” He rubbed his palm against his calf, took a deep breath. “Our house caught fire. Her, my dad, and my little sister died in it. They’re buried in this cemetery, too, just on the other side.” Stiles sucked in a breath so fast it made a whistling noise. Without thinking about it, he reached over and squeezed Derek’s knee, just once.

 

“My mom died of frontotemporal dementia,” he said, partially because it was only fair, and partially because sometimes it feels good to say it, to give name to what took her. “It’s a shrinkage of the brain, causes dementia and, eventually…” He motions at the grave, shrugs. “It took months.”

 

He saw Derek nod, out of the corner of his eye. Things got a little blurry, tears building, but he thinks he can be forgiven for them, today of all days, here of all places. They sat in silence for awhile, until Stiles gets control of himself, doesn’t feel so ragged anymore.

 

“I’ll let the flowers go,” said Derek. Stiles looked over, eyes flitting down to the soft smirk on his face. “If they’re going to go to anyone, I’m glad it’s to her.”

 

Stiles gave him a watery smile. “Thanks, dude.”

 

Derek scowled again, though this time less severe, almost teasing. “Stop calling me ‘dude.’”

 

“Thanks, bro,” Stiles said instead, making the bro as obnoxious as he possibly could, just to see the face he’d make.

 

Derek gave him a glare that did not disappoint. “Don’t call me that, either.”

 

“Thanks, Derek,” said Stiles, softly, grinning. Derek huffed, just as softly, moved to stand up.

 

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

 

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles said, reaching up to grab his hand before he could fully walk away. He turned back, one heavy eyebrow rose. “You wanna go on a date sometime?”

 

His mouth opened in a surprised little ‘o’, before his features settled into a pleased, almost bashful smile. “Yeah. That’d be… yeah.”

 

“Great.” Stiles grinned, his lips turned up at the corner a little impishly. “I’ll bring the flowers.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr: [yankeed00dledoctor](http://yankeed00dledoctor.tumblr.com/).


End file.
